


Supposed vs Opposed

by MontyKarl



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Love, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontyKarl/pseuds/MontyKarl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's true love, and sex, and too complicated to be explained in a summary, that's why i wrote a story. read it, check it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supposed vs Opposed

After months of little to no communication I finally give in to see him. We're sitting on his couch in front of some made for television horror movie. My arm's braced on the back of the couch as he leans against me, it's casual, but to anyone else it's the perfect setting for disaster. I wonder.

I glance at him, his attention rapt on the screen. His hair looks over gelled and under styled, kind of matted in places but I don't bother to fix it. The plain gray shirt he has on is only rivaled in style by those too-baggy sweatpants that he's probably been lounging in all week. We probably both could use a bath, but with our mentality we never take one when we have all the chance in the world. Too easy.

I close my eyes and duck my head down just a bit, nuzzling my nose against his cheek and part of his ear. Interested in the way the inner curves of it feel in texture. I hear him sigh heavily, what's wrong? I don't ask I just repeat the action, pressing a soft kiss right before his ear this time. He goes rigid against me. Kind of funny, isn't it?

"Pete?" His voice sounds tentative, and hopeful and perfect as usual.

I mumbled a quiet, "Yeah?" in response, and grimace when my voice cracks from lack of use these past couple of hours we've managed to sit like this.

He pulls away from me, and I remember that we're not just characters and that this isn't coming from the mind of some teenage girl with nothing better to do. When I chance to look at him again, he's still pretty close. Staring at me, a slow smile creeping onto his face and I try to smile back.

Then he does something that scares me, or I can only assume so with the way my heart picks up and how my throat feels too tight when I try and swallow again. He leans against me again and presses his cold nose against my neck, nuzzling me back, making sure to kiss just so, just softly right behind my ear. I feel crazy.

I must be if I'm imagining him doing this. If I'm imagining the soft, chapped press of his lips against my throat and my jaw, the shivers it inadvertently causes. The casual flick of tongue before he moves back again, eyes dialed in the flickering glow of bad acting and fake blood. Was that it?

Has he been waiting for that? Is he waiting for me to reciprocate? He doesn't look away, and I feel like we've been staring at each other for hours instead of seconds until I lean forward. My eyes close on instinct, I don't kiss him yet. There's that moment though, right before the kiss, where I should feel all sorts of anticipation and unresolved tension, but all I feel is his little puffs of breaths colliding with mine and all I think is that I should have brushed my teeth.

He closes that space though, and we're kissing and it's slow and nice. Just nice, not mind blowing, no indoor fireworks. I let him decide to pull away and when I look at him again the side of his mouth is quirked up and he's blushing. Which might be the only thing to have compelled me to lean in again.

We go through this a few times, each time the kisses are longer and a couple times we miss the mark and his nose bumps into mine or I only catch the corner of his mouth. I realize belatedly that this would probably be termed as making out, and something turns in my stomach. Acid build up, maybe, but I'm used to it.

The next time I pull away I feel the weight of his hand braced on my neck, fingers slipping up into my hair, sure to get caught in it, I haven't really been taking care of it again. I see that same damn half smile that he pulls, and I lean back in as he pulls away, tugging his fingers out of my hair. Which is only fair.

The part where he stands up and tugs my hand is all part of this game. I let him take me along past the dirty coffee table, and messy kitchen. Down the short dark hallway into the dark clothing strewn bedroom, and it's like floating. I'm not here, I'm just here. A spectator to my own life. Which only seems right, right?

He stops and fumbles with the laptop plugged in charging in the corner. This isn't how it goes, but he's doing that anyway. He clicks hurriedly and some sort of cliched smooth jazz starts playing, inwardly I didn't expect anything else. It's quiet though and somehow is easily ignorable, I know how it feels.

He slinks back over, it fits him, and presses against me. Presses his lips back against mine, works a hand back into my hair. I don't feel the build up of lust, no carnal need to touch him back, but I do. I do slip my arms comfortably around his waist, simple. Only everything is complicated.

My hands are starting to sweat and I feel light-headed, and he pushes me back until I sit on the bed. He pulls away from me, reaching down to unbutton my jeans, all of his attention focused therein, unlike how it's supposed to be; us kissing until our heads spin, fervently trying to get each other naked without breaking away. I kind of like this more, watching his hands work, fingers curling swiftly to pop the button loose and slide the zipper down. I'm kind of happy I stopped buying jeans that barely fit skin tight or ones with buttons all up because they looked cool. Cool is impractical.

He lets me work them the rest of the way off, slipping out of his sweats just to show off some generic pair of boxers. I hate to admit I'm glad I wore underwear, I'm sure I wasn't supposed to. I was supposed to just wear the skintight jeans, commando, but if I did that I might as well wear eyeliner again.

He looks a little lost, god only knows how fucking lost I must look. He brushes a hand through his hair, messing it up just a little more, biting his lip out of habit. "Uhhhhmmm....shirts?"

I don't completely know what he means, no perfect mental communication here, "Off or..?" He asks, clarifying.

"Oh....your call."

So he shrugs and pulls his off. It's weird again, to me anyway. I've seen him shirtless before, countless times, it's not much different but his confidence about it is surprising. I end up taking mine off for lack of anything better in mind, and he smiles again. I did good.

"Scoot back some." He orders, patiently, as though if I didn't really want to I didn't have to, but I do anyway. I scoot until my knees are barely bracketed on the bed. He kneels onto the bed, to the side of me and works his leg over my lap until he's sort of straddling me. Almost slipping as he adjusts himself and I reach out to save him, hands cupping his ass on accident, but it seems an okay thing to do. Eyes locking onto mine, heart probably beating faster because of his near injury rather than me touching him, but I'll take it.

Then we're kissing again, and it's still nice. Just nice though, not enough to get me hot, not enough for me to get past the fact we're best friends. The quiet moan he has me swallow tells me that it's not the same story for him, hell all of this so far has told me things about him I thought were fiction. I don't think he even reads the fiction about us, doesn't even know it's out there. Pseudo-innocence is his kind of thing I suppose.

He leans into me and I have to brace us with my elbow pressed hard into the bed, slipping slowly until we end up sort of horizontal. My legs are still hanging off of the bed and my pulse pounds low in my stomach at the strange circulation. He just readjusts himself again, sitting right across my hips. The kiss breaks with that, and instead of pressing our lips back together he just starts nipping at my neck. A little too light, and a little too infrequent.

I hear him huff, and then he clamps his teeth a bit harder, sucking on the impressed skin after and oh. My eyes flutter shut instead of staring at the stupid stucco ceiling, my breathing shuddering lightly as he works his way along my collarbone, nipping and licking and sucking. He shifts again, pressing his ass against my now half-interested cock. I make this quiet noise, that I'm pretty embarrassed about for some reason, he's heard me make these noises before. Muffled in the next bed over, across the half inch of hallway space tour buses have. He just shifts back again, purposefully and I make that same damn noise, and he sits up.

He's still, the weighted pressure still there over me, my hands migrated to his hips at some point and i thumb over the soft skin and take a moment to notice the song's changed genres. Something I probably have on my own iPod but have long since forgotten the name of. He's biting his lip again, he's hard too, again nothing we haven't see before.

"I've done this before y'know?" I quirk an eyebrow at him, and he flushes a bit darker, something settles in my stomach. So he stutters, "I-I mean....god, hold on..."

He slides off of me and so I sit up, scoot back, staring off in the direction he left in. He pads back in from where, I can only assume the bathroom across the hall, cock bobbing proudly and I can barely hold back a laugh or smile. He doesn't seem to care, just smiles back, crawling back to me on the bed, messing the already-had-been-messy sheets up more.

"This..I've..." He doesn't finish the sentence, he looks young again, not that he isn't but I mean really young. It pulls at something in my chest that immediately drops to my stomach when I see he's holding a tube of half used KY and some off-brand of condom. I don't breath, that'd be too good of an idea.

"It's....I'm getting carried away, of course I am...." He smiles, just a quirk of his lips, nothing too special. He wants it all, and I don't blame him but I have to wonder why he wants anything from me. His fingers loosen around the items and then tighten, he's slumping in on himself, not quite as excited as he was before his bad idea. This whole thing has been a bad idea.

I love bad ideas.

I push forward, push him back, watch his eyes widen, note how he pushes his questionable substances aside for later (soon). I brace myself over him, heart not beating fast enough but hard enough for sure. Oh.

In that moment I hated that feeling. I pressed our lips together harder than we'd let them be before, I bit and searched and made sure he couldn't breath. I take his breath away. Ha.

He wants it all, he wants too much, too fast, not fast enough. He can have it. I just hope to God it doesn't break him. I pull away for such an insignificant moment it blurs into the next. I slide my hands across his shoulders and chest and he squirms and makes the shyest of needy noises.

I slip my hands lower still, to his wriggling hips. I leave his mouth to find his neck to bite and suck and lick like he'd done to me, only harder, not caring if he likes it, he asked for it. He moans, and I've heard it all before, he says my name, and I've heard it all before, he begs for more. That's something new. I'll be happy to give him more of everything.

I pull slowly at the stretchy elastic around his waist, slide my tongue slowly around the shell of his ear. Pretend I have a plan. I have to pull away to get them pulled off and he whimpers quietly. I don't know what to do for a split second after the sound reaches my ears, but then he lifts his hips, and yeah, okay, right.

I pull the boxers down his thighs, staring at just those right now, touching just because. But they don't feel as special as everyone thinks, or maybe it's just me. He shivers, full body. I kneel up and watch him kick the underwear away, mine stay on for stupid reasons, I'm sure.

I inspect him, laying flushed on messy sheets, desperate just for me. I find it somewhere in the back of my mind to keep going, because he deserves it all. I forgo the pleasantries and wrap a tight fist around his cock, watching his eyes widen, hearing his breath catch, feeling him pulse. A couple of dry tugs and he throws the lube at me. No, really, he threw it at me.

It's uncapped with a loud pop, the plastic scraping against calloused fingers, not feeling it like I should have. Just enough in my palm to see it slide around, this is the beginning of this whole act getting messy. So I replace my hand, watching how when I slow down he thrusts up. When I speed up he moans in the low end of his range.

But this isn't all of it, this is just scratching the surface. Tip of the iceberg. You get the idea, cliches. I let go and he still bucks up, hands near his head, fingers clasped around the bottom edge of an old pillow. I drag my nails feather light across his balls, earning another shiver and I send one back without meaning to. I go lower until I can't see the tips of my fingers, so I feel around, I guess he thinks I'm teasing, but I'm just lost.

I hear him swallow audibly, "Pete." and I pause everything. I pull my hand back as he starts to shift, and he swirls over onto his stomach. It's the only way I can explain the move he just pulled off, still between my legs just a different side of the coin. I smirk lightly wondering how many times he'd tried that and it'd gone wrong before now.

Then I look him over again, head tilted sideways, braced on his arms, back bowed ever-so making his ass stick up just a bit more. More lube, more of this mess to be made. Then I hesitate, figures.

"I..." croaked out like a true frog prince. His eyes flutter open, dart sideways towards me. I keep the gaze as I press a finger in between his cheeks, pressing against his entrance. The lashes flutter, and he bites his lip and sure as hell doesn't tell me I'm wrong. I press a finger in, careful not to make it slip too far too fast.

This part I know, this part I've done before. I know just how to brush my knuckle, how to soothingly probe deeper. I know that the tiny gasps I'm receiving are the reason another finger joins the first. Why I pry them apart and push them deeper. How the gasps get louder, how my nails catch just a bit on the way in that time, be more careful. I think, does he want a third one, he wanted it all, but then I glance down at myself and scoff at the thought. I slide in another anyway and watch his mouth stay stuck in a permanent silent moan. I can feel him twitch and shiver around my fingers as they slip easier, he _has_ done this before.

And then, something weird happens as I stumble upon this thought. Who? Who's got to touch him like this, make him feel this, been here before me? How long has he waited for me to take this chance. When did I lose that first chance? Or is this it, and then it is my first chance. I lean forward and kiss his shoulder as I push them back in and his hips twist against the sheets.

I kiss his shoulder again as he whimpers and I pull my fingers away. Watch his eyes flutter just lightly, not opening, it's like he's dreaming beneath those salty lids. I fumble for the condom and fumble getting my underwear down and fumble opening the foil and fumble rolling it on. Suddenly my hands won't stop shaking, suddenly I can't wipe the sweat off my upper lip fast enough.

I nudge his thighs apart and he seems to wake up from that dream he was having. He pushes himself up, hands and knees, perfectly displaying himself to me were this to be the animal kingdom. But oh yeah, it is. So I kneel up, and spread him apart, eyes closed to the shudder and the strange high note coming through tinny laptop speakers. I press myself against him sliding slightly, thinking I might have used too much lube for his liking, but how could I know?

I start to push in, eyes still closed, because I still know this part. I still know how to be slow and accommodating, how to rub soothing circles against his lower back, how to bite off a moan when he shifts back against me and tightens down for a millisecond. The shuddering breaths from both ends when I can't go any deeper without moving back again, the slow unwinding of muscles.

"You..Pete you can move, whenever." I take another shaking breath, wondering how long I'd stayed just so, waiting, having forgotten to count the seconds. He wants me to move so I do, slowly rocking back and forth until I start slipping a little further back each time. Until I start sliding back in.

Slowly building up a rhythm of back and forth, breathe through your nose and out your mouth. But he whines, and presses back. _Not fast enough Pete, come on now._ I speed it up, gripping his hips, digging my fingers into the fleshier parts. He moans my name, and it's the most ridiculous thing on the planet and I laugh. I laugh too loud and too long, still thrusting, same rhythm.

I hear him laugh too, quiet and breathy, punctuated by gasps and lip bites until we both fade off. When I've started going faster without meaning to, but it's okay. So I try harder without meaning to and it's nice. So I try twisting my hips and he pushes back against me, my name spilling out again.

But this time it's enclosed in a soft moan, followed by a shiver and I can't do anything else but reply in a strained voice, " _Patrick_..."

I speed up again. _Keep the same angle Pete, we know how this goes._ The quiet gasps getting progressively louder with each thrust. Crescendo. The sinful slap of skin on skin that always manages to be ever present and ever a turn off no matter how good the pleasure is. Beat. The moans, and whimpers and whispers from god knows who anymore. Melody. Lyrics. Cadence. The song that's playing quietly paling in comparison.

But this isn't what I'd expected, not all of this. I take my frustration out by giving it all I've got. Giving everything to him. The sweat falls, beading up and managing to get caught in my eyes for a moment, stinging. When my vision comes back he's barely bracing himself anymore, one hand wrapped around himself, trying to keep time. Which he does, drummers are weird like that.

I hear him get louder and quieter at the same time, breaths huffing from our lungs trying to get out and stay out but they always get pulled right back in. Then he shudders, and he whispers my name one last time before the beginning of the end. Another piece of this beautiful mess.

He tightens down on me repeatedly, rapid fire muscle movements, pulling me in and bringing me down with him.

And just like that it's over.

Just like that I'm pulling the rest of the way out and tying off the garbage, still warm when it's chucked into the trash. Just like that and I'm coming down and wiping my forehead free of sweat. Laying down on the cooled half of the mattress. Eyes closed.

It hits me what I've done, like a ton of bricks, like a ton of feathers. I fucked him. Not just metaphorically but physically. A whole new level of messed up and ready to freak out. I feel wrong and vile and I used him and made him cheap. He's just a sales return now, without a receipt, I lost it years ago.

My heart won't slow and my throat burns threateningly, I focus on hearing him breathe. Breaths slowing down like my own should be. Then the mattress moves, and I can't open my eyes. Can't look to see him grimace and run off to the bathroom to try and clean me off of him. He couldn't if he tried.

Then I feel a slightly clammy but warmed forehead press against my shoulder. An arm across my chest, fingers wrapping perfectly to fit into the grooves of my shoulder. That's it, no other connection, no need to lay pressed completely together and sweaty I suppose. Everything's still wrong somehow.

Then he fixes it, so simple how he does it. Years of mastering the art, but he fixes it.

"I love you." It's warm, and solid and he scoots a bit closer, nuzzles his nose against my neck. My pulse slows but my heart stays beating hard before I reply and complete the repairs. Feeling his smile already, feeling it infect me without a warrant. In that moment, I love bad ideas, and cliches and best friends. I do.

"I love you too."


End file.
